


Heart of Black

by ContraryToEverything



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dark Comedy, Family Drama, Gen, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContraryToEverything/pseuds/ContraryToEverything
Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange has escaped Azkaban, and she is on a quest to find the one she loves, the missing Dark Lord. By chance, she stumbles upon Harry Potter and has to make an unexpected choice. AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the characters. Credit for that goes to J.K. Rowling. Some lines are from the novels.
> 
> A/N: This story is a(nother) re-write of The Feral Twins, minus twins, and entirely focused on Bellatrix. Right now, this re-write is the bane of my existence... I apologize to those whom I've confused.
> 
> Warnings: Violence, child abuse, torture. No shipping. AU.

1984

 

Azkaban, the wizarding prison, was said to be one of the most horrific places in the world, rising up from the North Sea like an unwanted growth, necrotic and hideous.  It was a black mark marring the unbroken horizon of the blue-grey sea, a breeding ground for insanity and despair. 

 

There was a riddle that asked: What came first, the phoenix or the flame?  A similar riddle might have been: What came first, despairing insanity or the Dementors?  The answer was: a circle has no beginning, but in former, the circle was a golden ring, pure and bright, and in the latter, the circle was a shackle, a symbol of inescapable doom.

 

Bellatrix Lestrange was one of many residents of Azkaban, and as such, she was no stranger to the miseries of life.  Despair was the colour of her sky, the colour of her bones, a relentless grey-white, and a monotonous pain that turned seconds into hours.  Insanity was just another song in her head, another note of hysterical and humourless laughter.  Those who could no longer screamed cried.  And those, whose basin of tears had dried, laughed.  

 

Bellatrix laughed a great deal.

 

And yet, Bellatrix could endure these punishments, these mean insults to her pride despite her pureblood status, her superior upbringing.  Because for Bellatrix, there was one emotional state she feared beyond anguish and beyond pain: she feared regret.

 

And if Bellatrix had to remain caged within this cell, her dark mane snarled in clumps, her pale skin shaded yellow and waxy with sickness - if she had to relive the worst moments of her life, ever again and again, mightn’t her resolve crack?

 

She had entered Azkaban, her heart aflame, fed by righteous purity.  She had given everything she was to her cause.  She wasn’t afraid of what  _ they _ could do to her.  She was afraid of what she would do to herself.

 

-o-

 

1985

 

Everything in Malfoy Manor was bright, the resplendence almost harsh against her sensitized eyes, and scaling skin which offered meagre protection over her sore bones.  Like some cave dwelling creature dragged into the light, perhaps it would have made sense to recoil from the vividness, to skitter back into the familiarity of dank and dark places, draped with heavy velvet curtains.  But Bellatrix was thrilled by the brightness, drunk to near delirium from the very thrill of being alive, of being free.

 

With the wily slipperiness afforded to those who were deranged (and she knew everyone assumed this to be so), she escaped her handlers, and teetered, alone, through the corridors, fingers trailing the smooth edges and curves of the pale wainscoting, inhaling the scent of expensive things, French things: amber, rose, leather, night orchids.  The things she had taken for granted - the moving portraits, the soft carpets - delighted her now, in a way that they had never done before.  It was a pleasure to drag her feet, shush, shush, in a soft drag of friction over the rugs, or gliding across gleaming marble.

 

Something caught her eye - something brighter than all the rest.  Through an open doorway, she saw a shimmer of golden-white, the colour of childhood laughter and innocence.  The sight of it was irresistible.  Swaying on disobedient limbs, she pushed into the room, her heart seized by the vision, and she felt herself wanting an ever-elusive  _ something _ .  The golden-white was the hair of a small child, a mere cherub, tiny fingers gripped around playing blocks as if they were treasures, and gray eyes wide, widening, mouth opening into a deformed shape, as she thought,  _ don’t be afraid, baby, don’t be afraid _ , her own chest tight as she stood, looming.

 

Recognition didn't come until she spoke, her voice high and soft, cooing: “Hello widdle baby.” The child was inching away, like some distant figure in a dream, face scrunching in dimpled dread. “Hello widdle Dwaco.”  _ Don’t be afraid _ .

 

How she wanted to hold it, to hold him, to hold onto something  _ real _ .  The idea of waking up was suddenly terrifying, and she reached downwards, greedily grasping, boney fingers carding through silken strands of hair.  It felt real.  Soft.   _ Don’t let me wake up _ .  It felt real, and yet -

 

She tightened her grip on the hair, ignoring the resistance.  She didn’t hear the baby whimper.  The glistening sheen in the child’s eyes were diamonds, such pretty things.   _ Don’t be afraid, baby boy _ .  It was real, wasn’t it?

 

 “Bella.”

 

She knew that voice.  Cissy’s voice.  Her sister.  She could trust her sister.  Her fingers loosened, golden threads slipping through her fingers as she straightened and turned around.   _ Real _ .

 

 “Bella, you’re not well yet and you mustn’t leave the care of your healers - not so soon after leaving Azkaban.” Cissy’s tone was placating, mellifluous.  Cissy was a nymph trying to sooth a wayward fawn. “They’re looking everywhere for you.  How you manage to elude them, I’ll never know.”

 

Cissy held out a lily-white hand, the smooth paleness a welcome contrast to the grotesque Dementors.  _ I’m not weak _ .  She felt herself moving towards her sister, sensing safety in that serene expression.   _ I don’t need help _ .

 

 “Dwaco likes me,” Bellatrix said mulishly.   _ He’s real _ .  Touchable, warm.  Would he feel right in her arms?

 

Cissy smiled, and Bellatrix felt like time was whirling backwards, and she was a child again, back in the days when Andy looked at her with admiration, and Cissy looked at her with love, before they all grew up, and Andy became a stain ( _ a traitor, filthy traitor, Andromeda Tonks _ ), and Cissy became a marble statue, an ice statue ( _ all cold perfection, Narcissa Malfoy _ ).

 

 “My dragon is a little gentleman,” Cissy said.  And unsaid: And you are not - not a lady, not stable, not safe.  Not a mother. “But nonetheless, you must stay with the healers.  I will bring Draco to see you later, and we will visit  _ together _ .  Come along Bella.”

 

Bellatrix could think of twenty-seven curses off the top of her head, each worse than the next.  But for all that she wanted to resist, no protests came to the scramble that was her mind.  And when Cissy placed a hand on her arm to guide her, she allowed herself to be led, not because she was passive, and not because she was weak, but because it was  _ real _ .

 

-o-

 

1986

 

To the disorganized mind, death was just the next big gamble.  Only, Bellatrix was as likely to gamble with lives of others as she was to gamble with her own.  After all, there were some things that were more important than death.   _ Beloved _ .   _ My beloved.  My master.  My love. _

 

 “Where do you keep disappearing off to?” Cissy had shrilled, chasing her across the elegant soulless sitting room, glacier-blue robes flowing in graceful undulations behind her. “You  _ know _ you’re still wanted by the law.  Think of the risk, for once!”

 

 “You  _ know _ what I’m doing, and you  _ know  _ why I cannot stop.” 

 

Cissy paused in her steps, incredulity stamped on her delicate features. “He’s gone.  The Dark Lord is gone.”

 

Bellatrix swerved to face her, lips curled in a snarl, hands like claws at her side, needing only a column of neck to suffocate. “I  _ will  _ find him.  I won’t stop searching until I do.”

 

 “Oh, Bella.” Cissy’s eyes gentled, filled with what looked to be pity, and Bellatrix longed to gouge those blue orbs out.  She needed no pity. “You love him.”  If Cissy was expecting her to disclaim, it was in vain.  Cissy’s eyes widened. “You do!  I suspected, but - _ why _ ?  I might not have participated in the war, but even I could see that he wasn't a wizard who could love -”

 

 “You know  _ nothing _ !”

 

 “ _ Bella _ .” Such exasperation in those two syllables.

 

Bellatrix crossed her arms.  She wasn’t about to explain.  Not to her baby sister, four years her junior. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

Cissy’s nostrils flared. “I know a great deal more about love than you think.”

 

Bellatrix snorted irreverently. “What, with Lucy?”

 

 “Don’t call him that!  And yes.  With Lucius.”

 

Bellatrix rolled her eyes.  There were far worse things she could say about her sister’s husband. “If that’s love, then I. Don’t. Want it.”  Nevermind that she wasn’t sure she could ever  _ have _ it.  And before Cissy could slip in a reply, face flushed with vexation, Bellatrix disapparated, the whip-crack sound rending the air before she felt herself squeezed, and pulled by the tingling draw of magic.

 

A disorganized mind was an advantage for more adventuresome spirits, but most of the time, her mental disarray was far more of a hinderance.  Bellatrix felt an inordinate degree of pleasure at the prospect of a risk, and the greater the danger, the greater the delectation.  It was never her physical well-being that she worried over.  Not really.  She had spent far too long, far too many years, burying the softest parts of herself, encasing her vulnerabilities in chains and tossing them into the unseen chasms within her.  She liked to think of herself as hardened, made tougher, more unyielding, by the grit of life.  She liked to think that saying something was so, made it so.

 

And what better proof of having an iron belly than her willingness to apparate blind?  That was something they never taught at Hogwarts.  ‘You could splinch yourself.  Or worse.’  Oh yes.  There was nothing like a little bodily damage to add a certain piquancy to life.  The key to blind apparition was this: instead of fixing a location in one's mind, using one's inner visual faculties to bridge the divide between two spaces, one merely had to focus on the feeling of magic, trusting the inner tactile faculties instead.  It was her hope that this haphazard method would lead her to her beloved, the missing Dark Lord ( _ someday, next time, tomorrow, soon _ ).

 

Instead, this was how Bellatrix found herself in the most hideous little muggle suburb she had ever witnessed.

 

There was something about this place.  It was as if the suburb had been designed with one criterion in mind: inoffensiveness.  And even in this, the urban planner had failed.  The aesthete within her was repulsed.  Bellatrix had long considered herself someone who was intimate with death, but the death represented by suburb was a particularly harrowing one.  It was the death of character, the death of individuality.  It was a death more of the soul than of the body.  So what magic could have possibly drawn her here, to this banal hellscape?

 

She surveyed her surroundings, taking in a slow sweeping arc, the visual interrupted by boxy houses on square lawns, edged by rectangular sidewalks.  It was a copious display of right angles.  And,  _ ah, there _ , an irregularity, a heap of limbs in over-large faded clothing, a shock of mussed black hair, clunky glasses, and an unhealthy pallor.  Magic still clung to him, this little slip of a thing, smaller than  _ ickle Draco _ , but without that rounded indolence, that unbruised peachy softness.  The magic left a sweet-sour tang on her tongue, reminiscent of kiwi fruit.  Accidental magic.  Muggleborn filth.

 

Bellatrix had a long list of people she would like to kill.  She had a long list of people she had already killed.  She remembered the faces of the fallen as a rush of power, a stale echo of that sweet intoxication.  Her beloved once stated: There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.  What he hadn’t said was this: It’s only when you don’t have power, when all agency is stripped from you, when the concept of choice is an unfathomable dream, then, and only then, can you truly appreciate the value of power.  Then, and only then will you hunger for it, always, if only to never be powerless again.

 

The point of the tangent was that she had meant to kill this slime before her, regardless of who he was.  But then, the boy was pushing himself up on quailing bony limbs, turning to look at her, and behind those cumbersome lenses were eyes of vivid green - beautiful eyes, the colour of death curses. 

 

And above those eyes, framed by obsidian hair, was a lightning bolt-shaped scar.  The boy who lived.  The one who destroyed her beloved.

 

Bellatrix had a long list of people she would like to kill.  And Harry Potter sat at the top of her list.  How fortunate it was, that her oh so disorganized mind had led her to him.  What were the odds, really.

  
She lifted her wand (walnut, dragon heartstring,  _ unyielding _ ), bared her teeth in a ravening grin, and pointed, the  _ Avada Kedavra _ already in mind, needing only to push up her throat and out her lips, and he would crumble so beautifully, dead, dead, soon to be dead.


	2. Chapter 2

Crack, crack.  Crack, crack.  That whip-snap sound of apparition cut through the sedate quiet of the suburb, brutal as a butcher’s knife through bone, more salient now than the ragged-looking boy before her.  Bellatrix’s grip on her wand tightened, and Harry Potter’s eyes rounded like galleons, uncomprehending, that babyish little mouth an ‘o.’ 

 

Aurors.  Four of them, up at the end of the road, in their vivid red robes, (no need to hide, when they were on the right side of the law), cocksure and lumbering predators, all of them, with no finesse, but blunt force could hurt as much (or worse) than a blade.  How did they find her?  How could they have known?  If it had merely been a set of partners, she would have taken the chance.  She trusted the speed of her reflexes, and there were ways to kill people (painful ways, cruel ways), that involved less syllables than  _ Avada Kedavra _ .

 

But Bellatrix was out-numbered, and  _ I won't go back to Azkaban, I won’t _ .  Her heart was already hammering, already anticipating the despair and insanity to come ( _ and I won’t, won’t, won’t! _ )  The aurors were looking at her as if she was an animal, a rabid thing to be put to sleep (such deceptively gentle words: put to sleep, put down, Dementor’s kiss).  

 

She could claim to gamble with death, but still, she did  _ not _ want to die, not here, not as ignominiously as this.   _ I still need to find my master.  He needs me _ . _  I need him _ .  She owed him, her master, her very reason for clinging to life.  It was he who gave her a purpose, when her sense of worth had been fractured.  It was he, who transformed the flickering candle-flame of her existence into a bonfire.  She knew the aurors would spare no mercy for someone like her, someone who proudly shouted her allegiance for the other side.  Someone who had the guts to put down muggles like the vermin they were, unlike some of her weak-willed brethren.

 

Through the adrenaline that inundated her veins, through the roar of blood in her ears, she could see the aurors forming words of the anti-disapparition jinx which could spell her end, leaving her trapped like a rat in the bottom of a barrel.  Her body acted before her mind, sending forth a beam of mauve light  _ (and see how well you can cast when the bones in your jaw are shattered, Ministry scum! _ )   She wasn't the best dueler of her age for nothing; she did not aim for showmanship, but always, always for the kill.  

 

But the aurors were well versed in danger.  Her spell missed, the group scattering, but it did its job, anti-disapparition jinx interrupted.  They had their own repertoire of offensive spells, less brutal, but no less crippling, cyan, white, scarlet, to her left, right, above her head, too close, far too close.  

 

Senses alert, she could hear cries of exclamation around her, muggles, worthless ignorant pests ( _ irrelevant _ ).  She bobbed, and ducked, and narrowly leapt from yet another onslaught of light, her magic already marshalled to disapparate, but as she angled to the side, she spotted him, the boy, Harry Potter, who hadn’t even the wits to flee the scene.  Thoughts of disapparition were momentarily quashed.

 

A year ago, she might have chosen to cut him down, as cleanly as an early spring shoot before a scythe.  To end the vaunted Harry Potter, even at the expense of herself, would have been  _ glory _ .  But that was then, and her mental state hadn't even been disorganized - it had been beyond that.  It had been demented.  She would have thought the whole thing a fever dream, and when they threw her back in Azkaban, it would have been an awakening, not a return.

 

But she possessed more of her mind now, as chaotic as it was, and this moment could not be brushed off as a dream.  And she would  _ not _ go back to Azkaban.

 

He was such a little thing, Harry Potter, and the Aurors were drawing near, but three steps and she was already by his side,  _ the trusting wide-eyed idiot _ .  She ducked down, and snatched him up with her free arm, expecting the heft of Draco, but this little creature was so light, so light, that for a dazed moment, she doubted her reality. 

 

She spun around, the boy held up to her chest like a living shield charm, a bony little  _ protego _ .  Her wand arm was lifted, aimed at the little creature’s head, and she bared her teeth at the aurors in a feral grin.

 

 “Don’t even think about it,” she taunted, waiting for horror to enter their eyes, waiting for them to realize the precarious position of their darling little saviour.  

 

But the aurors did not lower their wands, nor did the back away.  No recognition sparked in their eyes for the black-haired waif in her arms, and it occurred to her then, the knowledge a sickening blow, that they did  _ not  _ know.  They did not know that she held Harry Potter.  They could not see that distinctive lightning bolt scar.  They thought she was holding up some disgusting and worthless muggle!

 

The aurors would not hesitate, would not falter.  The spells were already coming, fast, and aimed true, and there would be no opportunity for a sing-song mockery.   She shifted her weight, but the boy had disrupted her sense of balance, and she was tripping, appalled, into the trajectory of a spell.  

 

But it wasn’t too late for her.  A sense of purpose sheared through the disarray of her thoughts, a need to  _ get out _ , and she felt herself squeezed, she and her little passenger, through a narrow tube-like space, and though the auror’s spell drew closer, closer, she was gone.

 

-o- 

 

Bellatrix did not apparate to Malfoy Manor forthwith.  She, and any other witch or wizard who had read adventure comics in their youth, knew that it was important to make a series of apparition jumps in order to evade capture.  But neither did she pause, and after five leaps, her magic drained (in no small part thanks to the burden in her arms), she was back in Malfoy Manor, in the visitor’s drawing room - the one room where anti-apparition charms had not been cast, at least for family and welcome guests. 

 

She was safe, or at least as safe as she could be.  But Harry Potter?  Bellatrix felt a wide grin straining her cheeks.  Harry Potter would never be safe again - not until he crossed that untraversable divide of death.

 

She released her hold on the graceless little creature, who crumbled to the floor in a pile of angles.  Her brows furrowed, she leaned over him, jerking harshly at his arm so that he faced her, but the child’s eyes were closed, the dark fan of his lashes resting against the dark blots under his eyes.  It seemed that the auror’s final spell had hit after all: a _ stupefy _ that left Harry Potter unconscious.  Her lip curled an annoyance.  Unconsciousness was, after all, a form of safety, and she wanted Harry Potter to be awake for what was to come.  Oh, if it were up to her, he wouldn't sleep until the moment that he died, singing wild notes of pure pain until the little songbird’s vocal chords were ripped ragged.

 

Her wand was still in hand, ready to revive the poor little innocent, but she hesitated.  It wasn't that Bellatrix doubted her course of actions.  It wasn't as if, miracle of miracles, some maternal urge had come over her, as if the goddess Hera had descended from Olympus to bequeath some unasked for gift of true love, mother’s love.

 

No, Bellatrix merely wanted to memorize this moment, to trace the line of Harry Potter’s unbroken nose, and angular jaw -  to remember pale skin, a smooth neck, and ruffled hair.  She wanted this image imprinted into her mind, to be gazed at later in a pensieve, because soon enough, every part of him would be broken, cracked, shredded, and stained with blood.  She crouched, and with a gentleness that Cissy would be proud of, she traced the white lightning bolt scar with her thumb, and a shiver rippled down her spine.  She was ready.  She had been ready her whole life.

 

The  _ rennervate _ was already part way out her lips, when the drawing room door flew open with a whoosh, and Cissy and ( _ that wretch _ ) Lucius Malfoy burst in. 

 

 “Bella!  What’s going on?  Lucius and I sensed a stranger passing through the protective enchantments -”

 

 “Haven’t I said, time and time again, that she’s too reckless?  Too dangerous to stay?” That was Lucius, and why Cissy ever listened to him, Bellatrix would never understand.  Malfoys were all ponces, the whole lot of them, shirking away from anything that might pose even a whisper of a threat.   _ But that doesn’t change the fact that I need them, that I’m dependent on their accursed hospitality, bloody Malfoys, bloody, faithless, necessary, disloyal - _

 

But Cissy was already at her side, peering over her shoulder, and her gasp was loud enough to silence even that windbag of her husband. “Bella - is that -”

 

Bellatrix clenched her jaw, clenched her hand around her wand, and if it were anyone else but Cissy questioning her, she would have disemboweled them by now, and danced on their livers.  That didn't change the fact that she wanted Cissy and her husband  _ gone _ .  Harry Potter was  _ hers _ .  Her risk, her catch, her prize.  Her life to keep, and hers to destroy.  Her credit, so that when her beloved master returned, he would know - know that she was loyal, that she was best, that she was  _ his _ .

 

 “- tell me it isn’t,” Cissy moaned. “Tell me it isn’t him -”

 

 “What’s going on?” And now, poncey old Lucy was invading her space, looking down at her prey, and even if she wasn’t focused on him, Bellatrix could sense him stiffening.

 

 “Get away from me, if you value your kneecaps,” Bellatrix hissed at him.  

 

But neither Cissy nor Lucy were looking at her or paying her any heed, both of them transfixed by the unconscious Harry Potter, drawing all the attention to him without even trying (such a little celebrity). 

 

 “Oh, Bella.  What have you done?”

 

 “What is Harry Potter doing in my home?  Your sister will bring the entire Ministry upon our heads.  She’ll be the ruin of us all!”  Reason number forty-two why she hated Lucius Malfoy: he spoke over her head, as if she were a recalcitrant child.  Reason number forty-three: the way he spoke through gritted teeth, as if he needed patience to deal with  _ her _ , when everyone knew that it was Lucius who was the unbearable one.

 

As much as Bellatrix wanted to hover over the child, like a leopard protecting a hard-fought kill, she could not continue to crouch when Cissy and Lucy stood over her.  She straightened to her full (impressive) height.

 

 “I've done more than you could ever dream of accomplishing, Lucius,” Bellatrix bit out, generously refraining from using the sobriquet, if only to keep Cissy from screeching in ire. “I found Harry Potter, and I'm going to be the one who kills him.  It will be a devastating blow to the mudbloods and blood traitors who hold him up as an icon of the Light.  And when the Dark Lord -”

 

 “You - you mean to kill him?” 

 

Bellatrix pursed her lips, irritated by Cissy’s interruption of her flowing speech. “Yes, Cissy.” Her tone was slow, the sort reserved for dim-witted children. “I mean to kill him.  After I torture him first, of course.  And where to start - fingernails?  Eyeballs?”

 

 “But he's just a child!” Ah, soft-hearted Cissy, weak, weak, Cissy, lover of flowers, and soft things, and helpless babies. “And the last of the Potter line, as well,” Cissy added, an afterthought, knowing Bellatrix’s nature.  Knowing that Bellatrix wouldn’t be swayed by babyish creatures, but she  _ would _ be swayed by old wizarding names, old important bloodlines that mustn’t die out, lest they all fall to the encroaching mudblood plague.  But Harry Potter wasn't a pureblood.  Harry Potter was half-blood filth.

 

 “The Potters sided with the light, fools that they were.  Harry Potter will suffer and die.”

 

Lucius interjected:  “We need to get rid of him.  Now.”

 

 “Do not touch him,” Bellatrix seethed. “What are you still doing here anyway?” Word were Bellatrix’s only weapons against her accursed, unwanted protector.  Why, why, _why_ , was she dependent on Lucius, of all people?  Why?   _He never liked me.  He never respected me, even when I rose through the Dark Lord’s ranks_.   _Just another man, who believes witches should quietly rear their children and keep their households.  Another big-headed, condescending man who thinks I’m broken because I don’t have squalling sprogs of my own._ _I’ll show him -_

 

But Bellatrix’s distraction prove to be fatal to her plans, because Cissy had already called for a house elf, ordering: “Put the child in one of the guest room - the emerald room - and bring up my potions kit.”  And the house elf, so dreadfully obedient to its mistress, was moving forward with alacrity, and then little Harry Potter, _ her _ Harry Potter, was gone in a pop.

 

Bellatrix screeched, her inner harpy in a blind rage, wand pointed at her interfering sister ( _ and who needs enemies with sisters like these _ ), and then indignity of indignities, she heard Lucius’s voice at her side, and he was too close, and it was too late to block the spell.   _ Petrificus Totalus _ .  A student’s spell, a baby’s spell.

 

Inwardly, she was a conflagration, rage burning absolute, screaming _ hate, hate, hate, HATE _ .   _ I’ll kill you!  I’ll rip out your kidneys and stuff them in your eye sockets!  Die!  Die!! _

 

Outwardly, her arms and legs snapped together, aping a plank, body useless, completely useless.

  
The fact that Cissy caught her before she fell to the ground only made the situation all the more mortifying.   _ Lucius will die.  Lucius WILL die. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Often, when I want to get into a character's head, I'll write or think their part in first person POV. Bellatrix doesn't lend herself well to this method. First of all, I don't think she's very introspective. And second of all, when she describes things (such as violent acts), I think she envisions them as pictures, impressions and feelings, rather than words


	3. Chapter 3

Cissy was once again speaking to her in that pacifying way, her soothing  time-to-go-to-bed-Draco voice.  

 

 “I'm just going to put you on the chaise lounge over here.   _ Mobilicorpus _ .  There, are you comfortable, Bella dear?  I'm afraid we can't release the full body-bind just yet.   I'm going to go check on our young charge, and we'll see if Lucius can't sort out this whole mess.”

 

She was going to kill Cissy.  Sister or not, this was intolerable.  The only positive of this utterly humiliating situation was that Lucius had already left the room.  They were all dead to her.  All of them. 

 

Cissy was gone for an indeterminate amount of time.  Time, which was obdurately determined to loiter along, forward one moment, back the next, agonizing as it circled at a worm’s pace, a lowly, lowly worm.  Bellatrix’s mind was filled with fantasies of blood, and more blood, and by the time Cissy finally returned, she had already mentally painted every single room in the manor with hot dripping crimson. 

 

 “Have you calmed down yet?” Cissy asked, planting herself, uninvited, near Bella’s knees on the edge of the chaise lounge, hands primly placed in her own lap. “No, of course you haven’t.” She let out a rueful exhale. “No one can hold on to rage like you can, I daresay.  Even mother conceded that to you, long ago.  Do you recall the rows you used to have?  I swear, your screams used to shake all the portraits in their frames, even with the sticking charms.” Cissy’s lips tilted up, nostalgic. 

 

 “Do you remember that time mother was chasing us through the house, accusing us of stealing her new purse - that one designed by the Italian fellow - her favourite one, with the rare purple-fairies spelled to it?  I had never seen mother quite so angry, as when it went missing.  She threatened to lock us all away in our rooms, and use the nightmare curse on us until we confessed -

 

 “You were going through that phase - I’ll never forget - where you wanted everything of yours to be pretty and feminine - your room, your belongings, your clothes.   Back then, you refused to wear black - if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I daresay I’d scarce believe it now.  Mother was going through your things, and you were  _ furious _ .  You told mother she was a daft cow, who couldn't even find her own wand if she was holding it.” Cissy’s smile was wistful, almost sad. “You told her she was a failure of a mother.  So she bound you to a chair, and left you there all night, alone with the nightmare curse.  You know, I crept down the stairs that night, and tried to free you, but of course, I didn't know very much magic back then, and nothing I did helped.   You didn't even make a sound that night.  You just trembled.”

 

Cissy’s voice was like a soft drizzle from the sky, quenching the searing heat within her, quieting her rage, leaving her suddenly weary.

 

 “The next morning, mother wouldn't even look at you.  I remember that it was father who let you free.  And then you climbed the stairs, up to my room, and when I asked whether you were all right, you said - you said: ‘Me?  Don’t be silly.  I’m not afraid of nightmares.  I’m the sort of thing nightmares are made of.’  And I - I said I was afraid of nightmares, and besides, you were too beautiful to be a nightmare.  And you held out your hand so that I could climb into your arms, because you still let me do such things back then, and you said: ‘That’s not true.  Nightmares are twisted and broken things, even if they don’t look that way on the outside.’  I didn’t understand what you meant at the time.  You were clutching the banister of the stairs to hold your weight.  I didn’t think about what it meant until later, years later.”

 

_ I don’t want to hear this.  I don’t want to hear this.  _

 

Cissy’s voice lowered to scarcely more than a hush.  “And it wasn’t until years after that that I knew that you  _ knew _ .  You knew I took the purse - that I had been entranced by the little fairies attached to it.”  She reached out one of her hands and placed it on Bellatrix’s stiff arm, a warm, reassuring pressure.  An unwanted pressure, reminding Bellatrix of past weaknesses, soft things better off withered, pruned away.

 

 “I still don’t know why you sacrificed yourself, when in so many other things, you let us take the fall.  But I think I understand, now, why you thought yourself broken -”

 

_ Don’t say it, don’t you dare! _

 

“But I never thought you were.  Never.  You are our elder sister - you need not be anything other than what you are.  You already have every reason to feel pride.  You need not prove anything.  Nor do you need to be my saviour, either, just because I see the situation with the Dark Lord differently.  I don't want to lose you, Bella.” There was a quaver in her voice. “ You’re family.  And if you continue your thoughtless course of actions, you'll hurt yourself, you'll hurt all of us.”

 

_ I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t want to hear this!  Shut up, shut up! _

 

 “I understand why you might want to hurt Harry Potter.  I, as much as anyone, want to see the old families in their proper place.  But harming a child - harming an innocent wizard -” she shook her head. “It’s distasteful.  Can’t we find some other way?   _ Obliviate _ him.  Or cast a geas to hinder his magic.  Cast the  _ Imperius _ curse.   _ Anything _ .

 

 “I don’t think his guardians were kind to him.  You never even told us where you found him.  He - he’s Draco’s age, but he’s so small, so frail.”  Cissy turned the full force of her azure eyes on Bellatrix. “ _ Please _ , Bella.”  

 

Bellatrix hated it when Cissy begged.  Her pleas were always so earnest, and combined with her seraphic features - golden hair, and cerulean eyes - it was a wretched experience to ever refuse her.

 

Cissy slid out her wand. “I’m going to remove the body-bind.   _ Please _ try to compose yourself.  And remember, I’m on your side.”

 

When she had finally regained control of her own faculties, she was quick to give Cissy a venom-filled glare.  She pushed herself up into a seated position, ready to spring her feet. 

 

 “It's his fault that the Dark Lord is gone,” Bellatrix accused, and that old rancor renewed itself like a noxious weed in the spring.

 

 “He was a  _ baby _ .  How could he -”

 

 “It’s  _ his _ fault!”

 

 “Think!  He didn’t even have a choice!  He -”

 

Bellatrix was on her feet, flushed with heat, and wand already in hand. “It’s his fault!” she shrilled. “All his fault!  I’m going to  _ kill _ him!” 

 

Cissy’s expression was pinched, and under her breath, she murmured: “Lucius said you wouldn't be reasonable.  Why do I always hope -” When her eyes met Bellatrix’s, they were implacable. “I’ve put Harry Potter under several protections.  You won’t be able to harm him.  Not in my house.”

 

And when Bellatrix shrieked, Cissy (cold Narcissa, marble and ice Narcissa) didn’t even flinch.

 

-o-

 

Bellatrix was pressed to make a promise to Cissy that she wouldn't hurt Harry Potter - not while he resided in Malfoy Manor.  It was an affront!  Her prize.  Her still-breathing corpse-to-be.  Her Harry Potter.  And she wasn’t even permitted to see him until she swore an oath, bound by bright threads of magic sinking into her forearm.  Torture, delayed.  Pain, procrastinated.  Death, sooner or later, leaning towards later, too much later.

 

She didn't think that she could bear to look upon the boy, knowing that she was declawed, toothless in his presence.  And much as she longed to fly from the confines of the manor, her impulsive actions may as well have been a sign, a pointing arrow written in the sky for all to see ( _ foolish, foolish _ ), rendering her a virtual prisoner here.  She retreated to the Malfoy library.

 

It had never been in Bellatrix’s nature to lose herself in the world of books.  For her, words penned upon parchment were too static, too lifeless, and she was a woman of action.  Books were merely a means to an end, and not an end in and of themselves.  But her current methods for seeking the Dark Lord remained fruitless, chiseling away at her self-worth, and bringing to mind why she used to work with the Lestrange brothers and Barty Crouch Jr.  Together, they had been able to compensate for one another’s weaknesses, to take advantage of their collective strength.   _ I’m not useless.  I’m not! _

 

She would research for the sake of finding her master.  She would do it because it was the only choice left to her.  She would be grateful for the fact that it had always been easy for her to remember the things she read (“sharp mind,” the sorting hat had said), and even easier to apply them.  She would not think about Harry Potter, would not think about the spells that could take his skin off inch by inch, or turn his blood into acid.  Such things were for later.  Later when the aurors had exhausted their search for her.  Later when she could finally leave this accursed manor without risking immediate capture, and with that trusting little boy in tow, a lamb to slaughter.

 

She passed days this way, each trickling by with a slowness that seemed to chafe at her skin, leaving her itchy and restless.  No matter how expansive the library, no matter how airy and beautiful the space, with its enchanted floor-to-ceiling windows, rich carpets, and pale woods, it was still a cage, an unwanted confine.  Occasionally, Cissy would come by to visit with news of the boy, which Bellatrix only listened to with unconcealed ill grace.

 

 “Harry’s ignorance is truly shocking,” Cissy had said, settling into the adjacent bicorn leather armchair. “He knows nothing of magic.  Nothing.  Did you know this?  Ah, you’re still pretending I’m not here.  Well, it won't do.  I have one of the portraits teaching Harry about the wizarding world.  Perhaps later on, he can share lessons with Draco.”

 

_ A waste of effort _ , Bellatrix thought with an inner sneer,  _ considering that Harry will die, preferably soon _ .  She still hadn't forgiven Cissy for her actions, but Cissy was aware of this.   _ The worst thing about having sisters is that they know you far too well. _

 

But at least Bellatrix could tolerate Cissy’s presence without wanting to eviscerate her.  Lucius, on the other hand, was a different matter entirely.   

 

The man had sauntered into the library one day, as if he owned the place (unfortunately, he did), snake-headed walking stick in hand, and every silver-blond hair in place.  His tailored robes brought out the silver of his eyes (she noted with disgust).  Here was a man who dressed and strolled along, and acted as if the photographers for  _ Witch Weekly _ might spring out at any moment (even in the privacy of his own home), because of course they would want him in the society pages, of course they would.  The greatest treasure, to a Malfoy, was himself.  He was the last person Bellatrix wanted to see (or perhaps second last, next to a still-breathing, untouchable Harry Potter).  She wanted to do terrible, violent things to Lucius.  The very worst thing about seeing Lucius was knowing that she couldn't. 

 

It was more than just the fact that she was relying on the Malfoys for protection; it was also to do with old pureblood customs of honour.  As a guest here, obligated to the Malfoy’s generosity, it was necessary to afford certain courtesies towards Lucius.  It was already too much of a strain to attempt to treat the man with even a modicum of respect.  Frankly, Lucius ought to consider himself lucky that she hadn't gutted him in his sleep.  The  _ cruciatus _ curse was too good for a wizard like him.  She wanted that pale beauty irreparably destroyed.

 

She suspect that he knew her thoughts.  What else could explain that smug smile, so painfully inflated with pomposity that she could barely stand to look at it?

 

 “Making yourself comfortable with my books,  _ sister _ ?” he asked, the word oozing insincerity, as he stood over her, giving no more than a brief glance to the sprawling structural towers of books by her feet.

 

She tilted up her chin. “Unlike some people,  _ I _ am devoted to finding the Dark Lord.”  _ Treacherous, disloyal coward. _

 

 “And unlike some people, I look to the future rather than to the past.”

 

She couldn’t stop herself from baring her teeth like some animal, rationality surrendering far too easily to anger, as she spat out: “And I can't wait for the future to come, when the Dark Lord has returned, and can see who of us has stood by his side all along.” 

 

Maddeningly, Lucius remained unruffled. “Meanwhile, the Malfoy influence continues to grow, so that whatever the future brings, allying with us will be an advantage.”

 

She could feel her nostrils flaring, desperately wanting to rattle Lucius’s pride, to reveal it as the hollow thing that it was.

 

 “In fact,” Lucius continued smoothly, “I'm cultivating influence for my family even now.”

 

 “You  _ know  _ I don't care about your business dealings, or your silly pretence at political games.”

 

A slow smile curled Lucius’s lips, every millimetre of pink like added kerosene over her blazing rage. “Oh, I’m not speaking of business dealings nor politics, _ sister _ .  I'm speaking of a certain mess that you created - a mess that I had to clean up.  Of course, I can clear  _ our  _ name of suspicion, but there's little I can do for yours.”

 

Was he speaking of - Harry Potter?

 

His eyes gleamed, recognizing her own recognition, reading her with an ease that made her feel despoiled.  She brought up her occlumency shields, but one didn’t need to read minds when one could read faces.

 

 “Yes, Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world.  How ever did you manage to find him?”  Pale eyebrows drifted upwards, but there was no way that Bellatrix would ever admit that it had been pure happenstance.  She could not let herself appear weak - not before this man.  And how  _ dare  _ he.  How dare he presume to have any claim on the boy.  Harry Potter was  _ hers _ .

 

 “Nevermind,” Lucius smirked, still baiting, always baiting. “I will confess that when you brought Harry Potter here, I thought that ruin was soon to follow.  But Malfoys have always known when to press an advantage, and Harry Potter is an advantage indeed.”

 

 “What are you going on about?”

 

 “It hasn't yet occurred to you?  Ah, I see that it hasn't.” He flashed his teeth, eyes glittering like freshly whetted steel. “Hasn't Narcissa mentioned that Harry Potter’s upbringing had been unkind?  That the child had been raised in complete ignorance of the wizarding world?  Just consider then, how that child would feel to know that it was us who took him away from a life of privation.  Us, who can show him the world of magic, can show him the _ right  _ way to think.  The saviour of the wizarding world would be in our debt.  More than that, the little saviour would be on our side, and with that child’s influence, his loyalty,  _ nothing _ would stand in the way of the Malfoys.”

 

Bellatrix’s mind was filled with a series of aborted half-thoughts, fury wrestling with bewilderment, only to be tackled by possessiveness and the wounded bellow of raging pride.   _ He wants to take my Harry?  My Harry? _

 

 “Poor Narcissa has been terrified that you mean to kill Harry Potter.  I thought, for the sake of my beloved wife, that I would come here to tell you that you shan't be harming a hair on Harry Potter's head.” He smiled, victorious. “And I believe I’ve done my duty.  Good day, sister.” 

 

And with that, he swept around, and glided out of the library, ignoring Bellatrix’s open mouth, indifferent to all the responses she wanted to shriek, even while none would come.

 

As soon as the door shut behind Lucius, Bellatrix jumped up from the armchair and sent forth a blasting curse that contained the full force of her anger and abhorrence, shattering the door into match-sized splinters, and the surrounding walls into clumps and dust.  The gaping hole and scattered debris were especially ugly amidst the surrounding perfection.  But the destruction brought little satisfaction.  It wasn't even as if Lucius would be the one to mend the doors; he would hire someone to do it for him, someone who could craft the artful enchantments so that the carved ivy reliefs would sway in some unseen wind, filled with a serenity Bellatrix would never feel.

 

She was tempted to start blasting the books as well, but unfortunately, for all that she didn't love to read, she, as well as any other pureblood, knew that books were precious, that the knowledge contained within was often priceless.  She was quivering. The surfeit of rage that she felt was too great to be contained within a mere physical body, and it poured off of her in roiling heat waves, ravenous for destruction, for something to hurt.

 

She began to pace, heedless of the bits of wood and flooring beneath her feet, heedless of the lack of privacy, having destroyed the doorway that would offer her much needed personal space.  She needed to think. 

 

Bellatrix was far from stupid.  But she was also impulsive, and far too likely to give into to the caprices of her emotions, those wild crests and valleys of feeling that made her feel so alive.  There were a surprising number of problems that could be solved with violence, tenacity, and little regard for consequences.  But Bellatrix was already on edge, already besieged by the relentless inquietude that left no room for patience.  She could not slowly draw out her prey, and pounce with sharpened claws when the opportunity came.  Life would pass her, quickly, too quickly, if she waited.  And so, she needed to think, to plan.

 

So, Lucius ( _ bloody, screaming, on-his-knees, he’s going to suffer, suffer! _ ) wanted Harry Potter for himself, wanted Harry for The Cause.  Bellatrix could be objective(-ish).  It was a not-terrible idea to turn Harry Potter’s mind, to shape his loyalties so that he would yield to pureblood superiority when the time came.  But for Harry to be loyal to the Malfoys?  The  _ Malfoys _ ? (Reason fifty-four why she loathed Lucius Malfoy: he existed). 

 

No.  It was not to be borne.  She was the one who found Harry Potter, and she was the one who brought him here, and she would not give him up so easily.  Perhaps she could find a way to win him over, to win his trust, and she could lead him away, and kill him then.  But no, her mind had already walked that path, and disregarded it as a dead end.  Lucius did not trust her.  Cissy would not either - not when it came to soft, babyish things within her fold.

 

Besides,  _ could  _ Bellatrix even win Harry’s trust?  But what was trust anyway, beyond keeping to one's word, and Bellatrix could do that, she could merge words and action, hiding her true intentions until - until -

 

But wait.  If she could earn Harry's trust, if she could - 

 

And why would Harry need to be loyal to the Malfoys?  Harry could just as well be loyal to her.  No.  Not to her.  To the Dark Lord.

 

Once, long ago, there was a fantasy that played in Bellatrix’s mind, a sweet thing, a image that she only examined alone, in the dark of night, when shadows could mask her expressions, her hopes and longings.  These were the inner secrets, locked away (locked away still), never to be viewed, never to be exposed for the weak things they were.  Bellatrix didn’t yearn.  (She didn’t admit to yearning).  They were just idle imaginings.  Stupid things, foolish, girlish dreams, and even then, she knew they were worthless things, utterly, utterly worthless.  Pretty, worthless lies.  Impossible from their very inception.

 

She used to envision raising a child of her own.  No, not of her own - a child of her’s and the Dark Lord’s (it was presumptuous, she knew, but what a gilded and beautiful thought, what an exalted, impossible thing).  In these fantasies (long expired fantasies), the dark-haired child would be perfect in every way because she would make it so.  The child’s loyalty would be as true as her own, the grist needed to form the perfect soldier, the perfect defender of pureblood ideals.

 

Harry wasn’t her child.  But he was  _ a _ child.  A parentless child, motherless little thing.

 

Bellatrix wasn’t a mother.  She never thought it a possibility in a real sense.  But she knew what she wanted, and she knew she didn’t want a world where Harry Potter was loyal to the Malfoys.  Harry didn’t have a mother.  He wouldn’t know any better.  And the muggles who raised him weren’t even worth considering, slime that they were.

 

He was already hers.  She needed only to seize him, to lay stake to that loyalty.  He would be her gift to her beloved master, the Light side’s saviour, drenched in Darkness.  Bellatrix would be her Lord’s commander.  Harry Potter would be her Lord’s sword, her Lord’s blade, to cut down the shocked enemy, cut down both their hopes and their bodies.

 

Oh yes, she could do this.  And if her master was displeased, if her master wanted Harry Potter dead, then she would be the one to take the dagger and plunge it into the boy’s still-beating heart.

  
Face stretched into a manic grin, she stepped across the broken bits of door and wall, and left the library.   _ I’m coming for you, Harry, mine.  I’m coming for you, and I’m going to sharpen you into a blade pointed at mudbloods and blood-traitors alike.  And when they crumble, when they fall, their howls of betrayal will be our music, our song.  Mine, mine, Harry, mine. _


End file.
